


Become

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Living up to expectations, Parent-Child Relationship, Worst fears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:57:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric never wanted to become like them, but... somewhere along the way, it started to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Become

The problem, Varric thinks, is that the work is never done.

He had felt the weight of it in Skyhold, the pressure to keep the wheels turning. Back then, he had Cole.

_“Varric?”  
_

_He does not even look up. “Sorry, Kid. Little busy right now.”  
_

_There is a silence so deep it could rival the Breach. “Oh,” says Cole quietly. And then, “numbers, sovereigns all lined up in a row, must be better, must be best –“ His hand is light on Varric’s, stopping the quill in his fingers. “You’re doing it again. Take a break.”_

_Varric blinks, looking up into eyes older than anything he has ever known.  
_

_“Huh?”  
_

_“You think you can still become your brother, sometimes. But you’re not him. You don’t need to be him, you need to be you.”_

But that had been then, he thinks bitterly. The world had been falling to shit, and his life had strangely been a lot easier. The Guild had been more understanding of his delegating – after all, if the world fell to the Elder Ones, there would be no coin for anyone.

Now… now the world was rebuilding, and he had to keep up with their demands more and more. Though he longed to stay at home with his wife and child, the businesses had to be kept in check. And though he _could_ do that through written communication…

He pores over the most recent bundle of figures, glasses low in his nose and brow furrowed. The day was late, yet he lingered at his desk. _If I finish this tonight, I can wait until the afternoon’s responses tomorrow_ , he reasons. A whole blessed morning off. The Seeker would forgive him for the late night, surely.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Cassandra appears in the doorway, a sleepy smiling child in her arms. “Papa, someone is ready for their story.”

He spares them a quick glance, heart softening at the sight, but the pages draw his attention once more. “Story?”

“Of course. After all, it is bedtime. Is it not, my darling?” she adds with a smile as their daughter giggles happily, head resting on Cassandra’s shoulder.

“Oh.” He swallows. “You’ve got this, Seeker, I’m busy. These letter don’t magically write themselves.”

“Varric, it is past nine –“

“ _Stones_ , Ilsa, not in front of the children.”

The silence descends, their daughter wriggling in Cassandra’s arms as she stares at him. He blinks, the realisation of what he had just said finally hitting him.

“Shit.”

And he pushes back from the desk, making a break for the door.

*

She finds him at the foot of the garden, throwing pebbles into the small stream that ran past the stone wall that bordered their home.

“Varric?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Really, I am.”

“I know.” She sits precariously on the wall next to him, facing the house as her arm rubs against his shoulder. “But I am having trouble understanding. Would you help me?”

He stares into the water for a long time before the words come. “My father hated arguing with my mother. _Hated_ it. He loved her, after all. But they would still argue, because their marriage was hard work. And if it started whenever me and Bartrand were around…”

She loops her arm through his, squeezing his arm gently. “You are not your father.”

His laugh is hollow. “No. No, I’m worse. I’m both of them.”

At her silence, he tells her – things he has not said in decades.

“Our family was great, once, or so I was told. My father put paid to that. I’m a rogue, but I try to be honest. He didn’t share that sentiment. He got the name of Tethras removed from Orzammar history, the family exiled. Everything he did after that… was to try and reclaim something that was gone forever. Nothing else mattered.” He shakes his head. “He would take what coin we had, make shitty deals and renege on promises, all to try and better our name amongst the surface community.”

“Surely it was for you – for you and Bartrand, your future -” 

“Do you know, I can count how many times I actually saw my father?” He smiles, a bitter expression. “Trust me. It was for him, not us. We were supposed to go on in his name like loyal sons of the Stone. In the name of the Ancestors, boy.” 

She squeezes his arm again. “You became Andrastian. You owe nothing to the Stone.”

“My mother was worse, in a way. Cold. She adored Bartrand, anyone could see that, but even with him, she… she never quite connected with him, really. She threw party after party, tried to cover up our history with her socialising. It was because of her that we became as important to the Merchant’s Guild as we did, really. And then it all fell apart when Bartrand was old enough to take control of his own affairs. She drank, and then she got sick. And then she didn’t need to get drink to be bedridden anymore. And I –“ He swallows, closing his eyes. “I’m starting to understand it. The lure of that vice. I watched her disappear into the dark and part of me wonders if I could… bear it, better than she did. To follow that path into oblivion.”

“ _Oh_ –“

He can hear her horror, opening his eyes and offering her a solid gaze. “I _never_ would,” he promises. “Never.”

She nods slightly, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “I trust you,” she murmurs. “But that you have entertained the notion… is terrifying.”

“We’ve all got a little darkness inside us, Seeker. You know that.”

“I suppose you would not be much of a writer if you had not given it a thought.” They lapse into silence.

His fingers flex and uncurl. “I don’t want to be -”

“Varric, you are not _them_.” She cups his cheek, smiling warmly as he leans into the touch. “You have never missed a single bedtime story. You do not lean on anything for a crutch. You have had a bad week, and that is all. Do not shut me out, dear heart.”

He sighs, a long and soulful exhale. “I don’t want to worry you,” he murmurs.

“This wall you are putting up around your heart is more worrying than anything,” she points out. “Come. Come back with me, tell our daughter a story and then come to bed and think of nothing but my embrace.”

He smiles slightly. “Well,” he reasons, “I do so enjoy your embrace…”

She laughs, rising and offering her hand. “Bedtime. Forget about the Guild until the morning, at least, when we can look upon the problems with fresh eyes.”

“We?”

“I am the wife of the Deshyr Tethras,” she says, straightening at the words. “Do you think me unsuited for the task?” Despite the sharp tone, there is a wickedness in her eyes.

He hauls himself up from the wall, taking her hand and bringing it to her knuckles. “Forgive me,” he murmurs.

“There is nothing to forgive, husband.” She squeezes his fingers. “Just do not forget, your problems are my problems. I would not have you bear a burden alone.”

And that was the crux of it, he realises, hand in hers as they walk back up to the house – he was no longer alone. His family had left him bereft, his friends had gone their separate ways, but she remained at his side, determined to face life with him despite the hardships. It would be hard, but she would work _with_ him, because that was who they were. He did not have to fear the dark alone.

It is a warming thought.


End file.
